against the prisoner, and his incisive judicial utterances soon
dispelled the impression which the prisoner's earnestness had produced.
He said that in the circumstances of the case his speech would be
briefer than it otherwise would have been. He had a duty to perform,
and he would perform it, without, he hoped, any undue severity or
harshness. Unhappily the evidence was only too clear against the
prisoner, and unhappily the prisoner had strengthened the case against
himself. This was not a matter of sentiment it was a matter of justice,
and justice must be done. With slight limitations, around which the
prisoner threw a veil of silence, contenting himself to cast suspicion
upon them by some kind of mysterious implication which no person could
understand, and not venturing to give them a distinct and indignant
denial--with slight limitations, then, the prisoner had admitted the
truthfulness of the evidence brought against him. As the prisoner had
not directly referred to these doubtful points in the evidence, he
would himself do so, and endeavor to clear away any latent doubt--if
such existed--in the minds of the jury. First, with respect to the
ulster. The prisoner did not deny that he wore this ulster on the
whole of the day his coachman, James Moorhouse, was driving him to
various places, and it was only upon his arrival home at midnight that
he endeavored to shake the coachman's evidence as to whether, when he
entered the carriage, upon leaving Prevost's Restaurant, and upon his
issuing from the carriage when the coachman drew up at his house, he
still had this ulster on. What his motive was in endeavoring to shake
the coachman's testimony upon this point it was impossible to say. He
(the learned counsel) had most carefully considered the matter, and the
only conclusion he could arrive at was that the prisoner was anxious to
instil a doubt into the minds of the jury, that it was not he who left
the restaurant at ten minutes to twelve and entered his carriage, and
that it was not he who alighted from the carriage and opened his street
door. But supposing, for instance, that this argument had a foundation
in fact, was it not easy for the prisoner to prove what he had done
with himself between ten minutes to twelve on the night of the 25th of
March and seven o'clock on the morning of the 26th? Surely some person
or persons must have seen him, and had he produced those persons there
would have been a reasonable _alibi_ set up, which it would be the duty
of every one engaged in this case seriously to consider. Indeed, he
would go so far as to say that, admitting such evidence to be brought
forward and established, there could not be found a jury who would
convict the prisoner of the charge brought against him. It would then
have been proved that the prisoner had not seen his wife from eleven
o'clock on the morning of the 25th of March until seven o'clock on
the morning of the 26th, and as it was during the night of those days
that the unhappy lady met her death, it would have been impossible to
bring the prisoner in guilty. But, easy as this evidence must have
been to produce, there is not only no attempt to produce it, but in
his lamentably impotent speech the prisoner does not even refer to
it. In his mind, then, and in the minds of all reasonable men, there
could not be a doubt that this was the case of one who, in despair,
was catching at a straw to save himself. The learned counsel touched
briefly but incisively upon every point in the evidence concerning
which the prisoner had maintained silence, and had made no endeavor to
confute. For instance, there was the lady whom he had met in Bloomsbury
Square, whom he took to Prevost's Restaurant, whom he regaled with a
supper which neither he nor she touched--a distinct proof that they
were otherwise momentously occupied. The evidence with respect to
this lady is irrefragable. She was no shadow, no myth, no creation
of the imagination; she was a veritable being of flesh and blood.
All the efforts of the prosecution had failed to trace her, and the
just deduction was that she was somewhere in biding, afraid to come
forward lest she should be incriminated and placed side by side with
the prisoner in the dock. The prisoner did not deny her existence, nor
that she and he were for several hours in company with each other.
Were he innocent, what possible doubt could exist that he would bring
her forward to establish his innocence? Were both innocent, would not
she of her own accord step forward to prove it? The prisoner, in his
address, made certain allusions to honor and conscience, by which he
would make it appear that he was guided by his honor and his conscience
in the singular method of his defence; and it may be that there existed
in him some mistaken sense of chivalry which induced him to do all
in his power to screen the partner in his crime. It would have been
better for him had he brought his honor and his conscience to bear
in the unhappy engagement into which he entered with the unfortunate
lady who afterwards became his wife; but it had been amply proved that
the marriage was not, on his side at least, a marriage of affection.
Distinctly he married her for her money, and distinctly he would be
a great gainer by her death. Thus, then, there existed a motive, and
not a novel one--for the tragedy has been played many times in the
history of crime--for his getting rid of her. He (the counsel for the
prosecution) did not wish to press hardly upon the prisoner, who was
a man of culture and education, and must feel keenly the position in
which he stood, whatever might be his outward demeanor. But it devolved
upon him to impress upon the jury not to allow any false sentiment to
cause them to swerve from the straight path of duty. They must decide
by the evidence which had been presented to them, and it was with a
feeling the reverse of satisfactory that he pointed out to them that
this evidence could lead to but one result.
"The summing up of the learned judge (which, with the
Attorney-general's speech, will be found fully reported in other
columns) was a masterly analysis of the evidence which had been
adduced. He impressed upon the jury the necessity of calm deliberation,
and of absolute conviction before they pronounced their verdict.
Circumstantial evidence was, of all evidence, the most perplexing and
dangerous. It had, in some rare instances, erred but these exceptions
were, happily, few and far between. It had, on the other hand, led to
the detection of great criminals, and without its aid many heinous
aggressors against the law would slip through the hands of justice.
He dismissed the jury to their duty, and he prayed that wisdom might
attend their deliberations.
"At half-past three o'clock the jury retired, and it was the general
impression that the case would be ended within the hour. The prisoner
sat in the dock, shading his eyes with his hand. Not once did he look
up to the court. He seemed to be preparing himself for his impending
fate. But four o'clock, five o'clock, six o'clock passed, and the
suspense grew painful. It was clear that there was not that agreement
between the jury which all in court, including even the prisoner, had
expected. At twenty minutes past six the foreman of the jury entered
the court, and informed the judge that there was no chance of the jury
agreeing upon a verdict.
"The Judge. 'Is there any point of law upon which you desire
information?'
"The Foreman of the Jury. 'None, my lord.'
"The Judge. 'Is there any discrepancy in the evidence which the jury
wish cleared?'
"The Foreman of the Jury. 'No, my lord. It is simply that we cannot
agree.'
"The learned judge then intimated that, after so long and patient a
trial, he could not lightly dismiss the jury from their duties, and he
bade the foreman again retire to a further consideration of the case.
The court, he said, would sit late to receive the verdict.
"Seven o'clock, eight o'clock, nine o'clock passed, and then the
learned judge sent for the foreman of the jury, and inquired whether
any progress had been made towards an agreement.
"The Foreman of the Jury. 'None, my lord. There is no possible chance
of the jury agreeing upon a verdict.'
"It was remarked that no person in court appeared to be more surprised
than the prisoner, and when the jury were called in and dismissed by
the judge from their duties, Edward Layton, before he was removed
from the dock by the jailers, leaned eagerly forward to scan their
countenances.
"Nothing further transpired, and this unexpected chapter in the Layton
mystery was closed."
PART THE SECOND.
THE CABLE MESSAGE FROM AMERICA.
At ten o'clock on the night following this exciting day, Mr.
Bainbridge, Q.C., and his friend, Dr. Daincourt, were chatting together
in the dining-room of the lawyer's house. They had met by appointment,
and were now conversing over the strange incidents of the Layton trial.
"Its termination," said Dr. Daincourt, "is in harmony with the whole of
the proceedings. I am afraid, when Layton is put again upon his trial,
that there will be no further disagreement on the part of the jury, and
that his conviction is certain."
"With the evidence as it stands at present," said Mr. Bainbridge,
thoughtfully, "you are right in your conclusion. But there is here
a mystery to be brought to light which, discovered, may lead to a
different result. Almost unfathomable as this mystery now appears
to be, its unravelment may, after all, depend upon a very slender
thread. Fortunately, Layton's second trial cannot take place for a
month. Before that month expires I hope to be able to lay my hand upon
evidence which will prove him innocent of the charge."
"To judge from his attitude," said Dr. Daincourt, "he is indifferent as
to the result."
"You are mistaken," said the lawyer; "it is only that he will not owe
his release to certain means which I believe it to be in his power
to disclose. Has it not occurred to you that he has been anxious all
through to keep something in the background?"
"Yes," replied Dr. Daincourt, "that has been my impression; but it
might be something which would more firmly fix his guilt. Is it your
intention to follow up the case?"
"To the last link in the chain."
"The chain, if there be one, is safely hidden, and I cannot for the
life of me see a single link."
Mr. Bainbridge, leaning back in his chair, did not reply for a few
moments, and then he said,
"I have two links to commence with. One of these is shadowy; the
other is certain and tangible." And then, with the air of a man whose
thoughts were engaged upon an important subject, he exclaimed, "If I
could only discover its meaning!"
"The meaning of what?"
The lawyer took a pack of cards from a drawer and selected a card,
which he handed to Dr. Daincourt.
"The Nine of Hearts," said the doctor.
"The card," said the lawyer, "that was found in the pocket of Layton's
ulster."
"Is this your tangible link?" asked Dr. Daincourt, turning the card
over in his hand.
"It is my tangible link," replied the lawyer.
Dr. Daincourt shrugged his shoulders. "You are adding mystery to
mystery."
"I think not," said the lawyer. "You were not in the court when the
Nine of Hearts was produced."
"No."
"That and the latch-key of Layton's street door were the only articles
found in the pockets of the ulster. When the evidence relating to these
articles was being given, I closely observed Layton's face. I knew, but
he did not, that these two articles were all that were discovered in
the pockets of the incriminating coat. When the latch-key was held up
he smiled faintly; he was not surprised. But when the Nine of Hearts
was produced there flashed into his eyes a startled look--a look of
bewilderment and astonishment; indeed, there was something of horror in
his face. I needed no further sign to make me positive that he had no
previous knowledge of the card, and that it was the first time he had
seen it."
"Something of horror, you say."
"It was my impression, and I cannot account for it. Not so with his
bewilderment and astonishment. To my mind they are easily explained."
"He asked no questions concerning the card?" remarked Dr. Daincourt.
"He asked no questions," said the lawyer, somewhat irritably,
"concerning a hundred matters upon which the witnesses should have been
hardly pressed. Can you not see that this accentuates my conviction
that the Nine of Hearts is a link in the chain?"
"Yes, supposing you had not already arrived at a false conclusion with
respect to poor Layton's knowledge of the possession of the card."
"I will stake my life and reputation," said the lawyer, earnestly,
"upon the correctness of my conclusion. I will stake my life and
reputation that, until that moment, Edward Layton did not know that the
card was in his pocket."
"Then somebody must have placed it there."
"As you say, somebody must have placed it there."
"But in the name of all that is reasonable," exclaimed Dr. Daincourt,
"what possible connection can you trace between a playing-card,
whether it be the ace of clubs, or the king of spades, or the nine of
hearts--it matters not which--what possible connection can you find
between _any_ playing-card and the awful charge brought against Layton?"
"That," said the lawyer, drumming upon the table with his fingers, "is
what I have to discover. You do not know, doctor, upon what slight
threads the most important issues hang."
"I think I do," said Dr. Daincourt, with a smile.
"I do not refer to the general issues of human life," said the lawyer,
in explanation; "I refer to legal matters, especially to criminal cases
the solution of which rests upon circumstantial evidence. Circumstances
the most remote, and apparently absolutely worthless and trivial, have
been woven by a legal mind into a strand strong and firm enough to drag
a prisoner out of the very jaws of death."
"And this Nine of Hearts is one of those slender threads?" said Dr.
Daincourt, in a tone of incredulous inquiry.
"Very likely. You may depend I shall not lose sight of it."
"You spoke of two links," said Dr. Daincourt, "and you have shown me
that which you believe to be a tangible one. What is the link which you
say is shadowy and less dependable?"
"I will explain. The jury were discharged, being unable to agree upon
their verdict. It may leak out through the press by-and-by--pretty
much everything _does_ leak out through the press nowadays--but it
is not known at present to the public how many of the jury were for
pronouncing the prisoner guilty, and how many for pronouncing him
innocent."
"I have heard rumors," said Dr. Daincourt.
"I," said the lawyer, "have positive information. Eleven of them
declared him guilty, one only held out that he was innocent. Arguments,
persuasions, logical inferences and deductions, the recapitulation of
the evidence against him--all were of no avail in this one juryman's
eyes. He would _not_ be convinced; he would _not_ yield. He had made up
his mind that the prisoner was innocent, and that he, at least, would
not be instrumental in sending him from the dock a felon."
"I can see nothing in that," said Dr. Daincourt.
"There are," continued the lawyer, "in civil and criminal records,
instances of a like nature, some of which have been privately sifted,
with strange results, after the cases have been finally settled. I
recollect one case which may bear upon this of Layton's. I do not say
it does, but it may. It occurred many years ago, and the jury were
locked up a barbarous length of time without being able to come to
an agreement. There was no possible doubt, circumstantially, of the
prisoner's guilt; the evidence was conclusive enough to convict twenty
men. One person, however, would not give in, and that person was on
the jury. The prisoner was tried again, and unhesitatingly acquitted.
During the time that had elapsed between the first and second trials
additional evidence was found which proved the prisoner to be innocent.
The juryman who held out on the first trial happened to have been some
years before a friend of the prisoner, a fact, of course, which was not
known when the jury were empanelled. After the result of the second
trial he publicly declared that he had been guided by his feelings and
not by the evidence."
"And you think that something of the sort may have happened in this
case?"
"Had you been on the jury, what would have been your verdict?"
"Guilty."
"Had _I_ been on the jury, what would have been _my_ verdict? Despite
my firm conviction that Layton is an innocent man, I should have
brought him in guilty. It was not my opinion I had to be guided by, it
was the evidence and the evidence in Layton's case, as it was presented
to the court and appears in the papers, indisputably proclaims him to
be a guilty man. Again, when the verdict was pronounced I watched his
face; again I saw there a startled look of wonder and astonishment; to
his own mind the evidence against him was conclusive. Then it was that
I observed him for the first time gaze upon the jury with some kind
of interest and attention. Not once during the trial had he looked at
them in any but a casual way, and I should not be surprised to learn
that he was ignorant of their names. This is most unusual. Ordinarily
a prisoner pays great attention to the jury upon whose verdict his
fate hangs. He gazes upon them with deepest anxiety, he notes every
change in their countenances, is despondent when he believes it to be
against him, is hopeful when he 'believes it to be in his favor. Not
so with Layton. When the jury were empanelled, and their names called
over, he paid not the slightest attention to them he did not turn his
eyes towards them; he might have been both deaf and blind for all the
interest he evinced."
"Perhaps you are not aware," said the doctor, "that he is very
short-sighted, and that without his glasses it would have been
impossible for him to distinguish their features."
"I am quite aware of it," said the lawyer "but he had his glasses
hanging round his neck, and it is remarkable that not once during the
trial did he put them to his eyes. I have here," and the lawyer tapped
his pocket-book, "a list of the names, social standing, and businesses
or professions of the jurymen engaged on this Layton mystery. As
regards only one of them is my information incomplete. I know their
ages, whether they are married or single, whether they have families,
etc. I know something more--I know the name of the one man who would
not subscribe to the verdict of guilty which the other eleven, almost
without leaving the box, were ready to pronounce. Curiously enough,
this dissentient is the person respecting whom I have not yet complete
particulars. I am acquainted with his name, but have not been supplied
with his address. I shall, however, obtain it easily, if I require it."
"What is his name?" asked Dr. Daincourt.
"James Rutland," replied the lawyer.
At this moment there was a knock at the door, and a man-servant made
his appearance.
"A telegraph lad, sir," said the servant, "has brought this message,
and is waiting to know whether it is correct, and whether there is
any answer. He says he has been to your rooms in the Temple, and was
directed on here to your private address, the instructions being
that the message was to be delivered immediately, either at your
professional or private residence."
Mr. Bainbridge opened the telegram and read it. It was unusually
lengthy, and from the expression of his face appeared to cause him
great surprise.
"Let the lad wait in the hall," he said to his servant, "and you come
up the moment I ring."
"Very well, sir," said the servant, and he left the room, closing the
door softly behind him.
"I have been taking a leaf out of your book," said Dr. Daincourt.
"You seem to learn so much from observing the faces of people, that I
have been rude enough to watch your face while you were perusing the
telegram."
"What have you learned?" asked the lawyer.
"Nothing," replied Dr. Daincourt, smiling, "except that it appears
almost as long as a letter, and that it has caused you surprise."
"It has caused me something more than that--it has absolutely startled
me."
"You must forgive my rudeness. I spoke lightly, not seriously. If you
have anything particular to attend to, don't mind me I will go."
"No," said the lawyer, "I want you, and I think you will be as startled
as I am myself. This is a cable message from Pittsburg, America, and,
as you judged, it is more like a letter than a telegram. See, it covers
three sides of paper I will read it to you:
"'_From Archibald Laing, Box_ 1236, _P. 0., Pittsburg, U. S., to Mr.
Bainbridge, Q. C., London_.
"'Reports of the result of Edward Layton's trial for the murder of his
wife have been cabled here and published in the papers. There will, of
course, be a new trial. If at or before that new trial you establish
Layton's innocence, I hold myself accountable to you for a fee of
twenty-five thousand dollars. If you will employ yourself to that end,
I have cabled to Messrs. Morgan & Co., bankers, Threadneedle Street,
to pay upon your demand the sum of ten thousand dollars, five thousand
dollars of which are your retaining fee, the other five thousand being
an instalment towards any preliminary expenses you may incur. This sum
of ten thousand dollars is independent of the twenty-five thousand
mentioned above, and of course your own professional bill of costs will
be paid in addition. Messrs. Morgan & Co. are empowered to advance
you any further sums that may be necessary for your investigations.
Set every engine afoot to obtain the acquittal of Edward Layton spare
no expense. If a million dollars is necessary, it is at your command.
Send to me by every mail full and detailed accounts of your movements
and proceedings; omit nothing, and make your own charge for this and
for everything else you perform in the task I ask you as a favor to
undertake. Your reply immediately by cable will oblige, and, up to one
hundred words, is prepaid. I do not wish Edward Layton to know that I
have requested your mediation on his behalf. It is a matter entirely
and confidentially between you and me. I write to you by the outgoing
mail. Perhaps you may obtain some useful information from a Mr. James
Rutland I cannot furnish you with the gentleman's address, but Edward
Layton and he were once friends.'"
Dr. Daincourt drew a deep breath.
"Startling indeed," he said. "This Archibald Laing must be the man of
whom we have heard as making an immense fortune by speculating at the
right moment in the silver-mines. If so, he is good for millions. Do
you know anything of him?"
"Not personally," replied the lawyer; "only from report and hearsay.
He is an Englishman, and must be an amazingly shrewd fellow; and that
he is in earnest is partly proved by this cable, in which no words are
spared to make his meaning clear."
While he was speaking to his friend, the lawyer was busily engaged
writing upon a blank telegraph form, which was enclosed in the envelope
delivered by the messenger.
"What will you do in the matter?" asked Dr. Daincourt.
"Here is my reply," said the lawyer, and he read it aloud:
"_From Mr. Bainbridge, Q.C., Harley Street, London, to Archibald Laing,
Box_ 1236, _P. 0., Pittsburg, U. S_.
"'Your cable received. I undertake the commission, and will use every
effort to establish Layton's innocence, in which I firmly believe.
There is a mystery in the matter, and I will do my best to get at the
heart of it. I will write to you as you desire.'"
He touched the bell and the servant appeared.
"Give this to the telegraph boy," he said, "and pay his cab fare to the
telegraph office, in order that there shall be no delay."
When the servant had departed, the lawyer rose from his chair and paced
the room slowly in deep thought, and it was during the intervals in his
reflections that the conversation between him and Dr. Daincourt was
carried on.
"Is it not very strange," said the lawyer, "that I am advised in this
cable message to seek information from the one juryman who pronounced
Layton innocent, and whose address I have not obtained?"
"Yes, it is, indeed," replied Dr. Daincourt, "very strange."